


Fair Winds, Following Seas

by draculard



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Ambiguous Character Death, Baby Snufkin, How Snufkin Learned to Talk, Lands of the Dead, Moominvalley - Freeform, Neverland, Snufkin's Travels, The Unknown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 05:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18613882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Where does Snufkin travel to in winter?





	Fair Winds, Following Seas

**Neverland**

Many babies are lost by their parents. Some of them come floating down the ocean waves still in their prams, but some, like Snufkin, come in baskets. 

It became his first memory -- the day he opened his eyes and saw three moons above him in the dark blue of a night sky, and saw the reeds above his head and smelled freshwater and knew his little basket had washed into a river somewhere, safe from the monsters lurking in the sea.

He stepped out of the basket and felt his feet sink into the mud at the bottom of the river. Looking down, he saw a cloud of it obscuring his feet, giving him only the quickest glimpses of minnows swimming around and nipping at him. He glanced around, all his senses heightened, and gleaned what he could of this place.

Fresh air, a decent gust of wind, the smell of sea salt from the nearby ocean spray. There were trees all around him, tall old trees with heavy branches laden with moss and lichen. In the distance, he could see the blinking lights of fireflies -- red ones and blue ones and green ones -- twinkling in the night.

He took one more step, leaving his basket to bob in the water behind him, and suddenly his feet weren’t touching the ground. Startled, Snufkin swayed and would have overbalanced -- but he quickly found he couldn’t overbalance at all. No matter how much he tipped to one side or the other, his feet remained where they were, hovering just over the surface of the water.

“That happens here,” said a voice behind him, and Snufkin turned to see a boy much like himself, clad in autumn leaves and cobwebs, with twigs caught in his wild hair. 

Snufkin opened his mouth, but found he didn’t know how to -- or care to -- respond.

“You must be a Lost Boy,” said the strange boy decisively. He was floating, too, like Snufkin, and he glided closer with his toes skimming the water, to grab a handful of Snufkin’s coat.

Lost Boy, Snufkin thought to himself. Whatever does that mean?

His uncertainty must have shown in his eyes, for the strange boy opposite him grinned an almost feral grin and said,

“Do you like to wander? Have you always been alone? Is there anything you like better than the trees?”

Solemnly, Snufkin looked up at the treetops, considering it.

“The stars?” said the wild boy. “The sea?”

At this, Snufkin nodded, and he was treated once more to that sharp-toothed grin.

“Then you’re a Lost Boy,” said the boy. “One of mine. For as long as you want to be, anyway. All the Lost Boys leave but me, when winter comes.”

Winter, Snufkin mused. He supposed that was a long enough way away. Long enough to roam and savor this strange world, but not so long to grate on him. He was tired of standing in one place already, itching to go, to explore, to get started.

“Come on, then,” said the boy. “I’ll show you Neverland.”

* * *

 

**The Unknown**

Snufkin learned how to speak from the frogs in the Unknown, but first they taught him how to sing. He carved a boat out of a giant walnut shell and floated in the swamp beside them, camouflaged by the reeds, with his bare feet dangling over the side of the boat, into the water.

When the frogs noticed him there, he had green flecks of algae on his skin and coated over his toes, and his hair was warm from the sun. They gazed at him, croaking a song, and he gazed back with dark, hooded eyes. 

Over the years, he learned that the best time to travel in the Unknown was during autumn, before the long nights gave way to snow and wind and the song of the Beast. In autumn, the woods were full of reds and golds, and men made out of pumpkins walked along the worn dirt paths. And though he knew it must, in time, be followed by winter -- and though he knew it must have been preceded by summer and spring -- autumn days seemed to last forever.

It was in the Unknown that Snufkin exited the woods and found himself at the edge of a village with nothing but a few small, wooden buildings. The streets were abandoned, or seemed to be, but as Snufkin made his way down the town’s lone, winding road, he saw a horse lying dead in the long brown grass, with flecks of blood and foam on its lips.

There was no food in the general store. An old man stood behind the counter, well-dressed in old-fashioned clothes and polished shoes. He coughed so frequently his words were almost incoherent.

“What can I do ya for, young man?” he said. Snufkin’s voice, freshly given by the frogs, was rusty as nails and little more than a rasp.

“How much for that mouth organ?” he asked.

It was the only instrument in the display case, the metal casing dull and covered in dust. It sat atop a tiny wooden box, hand-carved by inexperienced hands.

“Sixpence,” said the old man, with a tone that suggested he was making prices up as he went. He accepted a little copper coin from Snufkin’s pouch, though Snufkin had to admit he wasn’t sure whether it was sixpence or not; he’d never stayed in one place long enough to learn its currency.

The old man removed the mouth organ from behind the glass, pausing only to cough in his sleeve.

“Y’know how to play it?” he asked. Snufkin touched it with the tips of his fingers, letting the cold dryness of the metal seep into his skin.

“I can learn,” he said. He thought of the frogs and their songs. He ran his thumb over the tiny engraved numbers over the holes and felt a rare, unpracticed smile tugging at his lips. When he glanced up again, he swore he could hear a familiar, whistling song coming from the trees.

The shopkeeper wasn’t smiling.

“Best get outta here quick, lad,” he said. “Here, there’s nothing but ghosts.”

Surprised, Snufkin could only say, “But that’s not true.  _ I’m  _ here, aren’t I?”

The old man pinned him with a beady, gleaming eye, but any answer he might have given was swallowed by another wrenching cough. When Snufkin left, he left quickly, feeling the dirt give way beneath his boots, holding his breath as he passed another dead animal -- a pig this time -- along the road.

Only when he was back in the thick of the trees, with thorns lashing at his arms and pulling at his back, did he take out his harmonica and start to play.

* * *

 

**Moominvalley**

At first, he thought he’d found another in-between world. Moominvalley in winter was frozen over and utterly still; no owls hunted in the night, no bees were sleeping in the trees, and all the houses he came across were shuttered up and cold.

He didn’t know what it was called, so in his mind he called it the Valley of Ghosts, and he made a shelter for himself in the woods, packing snow around a structure made of dried-up fallen branches. He played his mouth organ, inventing a song much like one he heard when he was young, played on pipes by that strange, wild boy who never left his island.

It was this song he was playing when spring came -- and it came all at once, the snow melting as he slept and leaving his clothes damp and cold. When he cracked open his eyes he saw buds on the trees, some of them shining red or pink, hinting at flowers.

He roamed down the path he’d beaten through the woods over the winter. Never had he seen spring come so fast -- already, green tufts of grass were poking through the dirt, birds singing in the trees, mice scampering over the forest floor.

When he reached the bridge, Snufkin clambered up onto the railing and sat there watching the river flow, chunks of snow disappearing fast into the water. He took his mouth organ from his pocket, rubbing it between his hands to warm up the metal, and began to play.

And as he played, against all his expectations, the cozy little house across the river brightened up. He heard the faint noises of a family awakening -- a stove being lit, footsteps stomping down wooden stairs at a run, the calls of a young, exuberant voice.

So maybe he was wrong about the Valley of the Ghosts.

Maybe he wasn’t. 

When the first little creature stepped out of the house and caught his eye, Snufkin felt a warmth seize his heart that was entirely foreign, that seemed to pin him to the rail like a captured butterfly. His mouth went dry; his song stuttered and faded away. In the distance, Moomintroll waved and shouted,

“Hullo there! Are you new in town?”

At that, the tight vice around Snufkin’s heart seemed to melt, spreading warmth throughout his chest. 

“New here?” he said. “Well, I suppose that depends how you define it.”

Moomintroll came closer. His eyes were wide and open, curious. He seemed too young for this -- well, but so was Snufkin once, and the wild boy from the island, and the children he met sometimes, along the path in the Unknown.

“Define what?” said Moomintroll. Snufkin looked down at his mouth organ, caught himself humming an old familiar tune. A song for new beginnings.

“It’s hard to explain it,” said Snufkin softly. “Whether you mean ‘here’ to say this specific little valley … or whether you mean it to say anywhere that isn’t …”

He looked up, caught Moomintroll staring at him with that open, guileless stare.

“Well,” said Snufkin, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Would you like to hear a song?”


End file.
